


plus one

by strawberrv



Category: AB6IX (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Self Confidence Issues, Trainee Era, basically more meditations on the idol industry. shocking, like. woong doesnt call it that but thats whats going on, non-au, poor woong lol, this isnt as emo as im making it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrv/pseuds/strawberrv
Summary: it’s cute, and amusing, especially when daehwi secretly rolls his eyes to woong during meetings, but more than that, it serves as a reminder that theywanthim here. that he’s not some stranger, intruding. they picked him.out of everyone in the world, they picked jeon woong.





	plus one

**Author's Note:**

> hihi ! sorry to anyone who's like.. expecting another nct longfic or something BUT PERHAPS THERE IS A WIP U MAY ENJOY !  
> anyway this is kind of just something i wrote for myself since this like... non-au pre-debut emo stuff is my like... brand i Suppose.  
> as always, though, i am in no way trying to speculate on reality or the idols' real lives + feelings ! this is entirely made up of my own headcanons based on the idols' public personas. i love jeon woong and i hope he feels like he fits in w ab6ix !  
> if you've seen brand new boys, this is set mostly during that time period, though the actual show isn't really acknowledged and some of the details and timelines might be off. i don't think u need to have seen it, but it'd probably help. by the way ! rhymer is the ceo of brand new music. thats kind of important. regardless, i hope you enjoy !

woong watches headlights pass his window, broken up by the blinds.

he presses a hand to his chest, feels himself breathe. feels the bump of his heart. 

still here.

still here.

a lot of nights it’s hard to believe, that he’s _still_ here, and some of them he hates it. he presses his nails into the skin over his sternum. his heart picks up.

it’s 4:11 a.m.

too early to get up, too late to sleep. he thinks about making ramen, but shudders when he sticks a leg out from underneath his comforter, burrowing deeper instead. he glances at his phone, which is silent, at the clock, which is silent, and at the window, which filters the dim neon light of seoul. he rolls onto his back, lungs settling flat in his chest as he breathes out. his body buzzes with exhaustion, and he’s certain he needs more sleep than he’ll get, but his eyes remain open. 

in moments like these, it gets a bit hard to tell if he’s real or not. perhaps all his life has been an extravagant dream, from the moment he went to the first audition. this can’t really be it, can it? the sum of his life, all fit inside a suffocating apartment that’s only his in theory. his name isn’t even on the utility bills, much less anywhere else. no one could find a way _to_ miss him if he suddenly disappeared.

jeon woong, a footnote in the last pages of a boy group’s album. backup dancer. nothing more. gone like smoke.

he feels the pull, staring up at his ceiling, as if he needs to concentrate in order to just keep the random array of atoms that make up his body in the same formation. like if he lost focus, if he laid here long enough without shaking himself back to life, he would simply melt away with the distortion of the next set of passing headlights. like wiping away condensation on glass.

jeon woong, gone.

he rolls over. it’s 4:19. he closes his eyes.

:

youngmin is nice; has that temperament that companies love for their leaders. maybe a bit unremarkable, but it’s not like woong can talk about _remarkability._ his raps are passable enough for mxm, apparently.

donghyun is one of those you could pick out from a crowd. anyone off the street would at least peg him as a trainee, and his voice is stable, if a bit common sounding. his face definitely makes up for that, though — classically and traditionally handsome, with those pouty lips and (surgically enhanced) eyes. second-lead-in-a-drama type.

daehwi… now that’s an idol. born and bred. he’s carrying them on his back through variety programs and interviews, effortlessly arranging their music. he’s a genius-type, the ones they love to handpick from schools. and he’s got the bravery to follow through on auditions and training. fucking aquarians. too goddamn many of them in this industry, if you ask woong.

daehwi’s gaze always feels heaviest when the three observe his monthly evaluations, chewing on the inside of his cheek from the corner of the room, hair falling in front of wide, calculating eyes. 

woong’s only seen woojin on tv. he doesn’t know why he doesn’t come to the evaluations with the others. woong and every other trainee on earth have seen produce 101, so he knows a few abstract, snippet-long and heavily edited things about woojin, like his dancing and his rapping, and maybe sort of how he sounds when he laughs. (there’s one behind the scenes clip woong watched over and over — which no one but himself needs to know.)

they’re his friends, sort of, and even that tentative way they can be friends is only because of their position in the company. they’re not woong’s competitors; they’ve already done the things woong’s dreamt of doing in the mirrors of practice rooms. they’re his seniors, and they’re kind seniors at that, if a bit awkward. he’s older than all of them except youngmin. _hyung_ never was meant to be said in the pitying kind of way donghyun says it sometimes. how embarrassing.

while they watch him practice, he has those prickly thoughts that every trainee has — _what makes them better than me? why have they been on stage and i haven’t?_

but then they visit him in the practice room with late night snacks, and drag him back down the narrow roads, laughing with him under streetlights, and they even hang around his sad little apartment until he’s tired enough to sleep. with daehwi hanging off his shoulder, badmouthing the ceo, youngmin watching fondly, and donghyun making him ramen in the kitchenette, he really can’t find even an ounce of hate in his heart for them.

:

debut is a revolving door, having to do with mysterious forces of the universe like luck and fate, and almost nothing to do with the concepts humans have invented, like fairness, or skill.

woong is almost used to the dizzying swing of it, the dazzling light reflecting off the glass, and the horrendously off-time rhythm; no beat to keep, slowing and speeding at the whims of nonsensical rules. there’s no consistency; it’s the opposite of a metronome, meant to throw you off. as much as woong would like to say he’s got the hang of it, he still cries out when the door pinches his fingers. he still gets disoriented by tricks of the light.

he feels insane, trying to keep track, but sometimes he can fool himself into thinking he’s getting closer. that as the door _whooshes_ and as the light blinds him, he can catch it on the next go around. and that moment of relief is worth everything.

:

monthly evaluations are terrible. woong thinks on some level he’s been traumatized — rejected from not one, but two of the biggest companies in the nation; told by the ceos to his face that he’s just not worth it. and yes, that’s sort of just the scenery of this particular career path, but at some juncture, you have to hear that (echoed in your head for the millionth time) and know that they had a point.

perhaps that’s the secret to idoldom — knowing in your heart of hearts that you’re just… not worth it. knowing you’re not good enough, never will be.

and then doing it anyway.

:

he very nearly starts sobbing into his phone when youngmin tells him.

to them it probably sounds like tears of joy, but in reality he’s in mourning. a pre-emptive mourning, at his pre-breaking heart, already disappointed at the impossibility of it. he knows how this goes — you train with people, they get picked. you don’t. they promise something to you. you believe them.

and then you don’t see them for five months, and suddenly they’re on inkigayo at 10 pm. without you.

maybe he’s jaded and bitter, but doesn’t he deserve to be? after six years, if he doesn’t deserve debut, then jeon woong at least deserves bitterness.

the years have stretched too long, he’s seen too many others come and go, and he’s gotten his fingers pinched in that damn revolving door _far_ too many times to be able to jump as eagerly at these pieces of hope.

there’s no way the ceo will agree to it. in fact, it might spur him to do the same as jyp and yg; perhaps he’s been meaning to do it for months and will only just remember when youngmin reminds him of jeon woong, that unremarkable trainee that’s been overstaying his welcome. the thought makes woong’s heart sink, and he’s not sure if he’s entirely kept it out of his voice after he hangs up with youngmin, vigorously wiping down his tear-sticking phone screen.

nonetheless, with the tears comes gratitude, to his friends, who do not need him, who have a debut guaranteed within the year, who already went through a survival show together. to his friends, who watched the unremarkable jeon woong at his last four monthly evaluations, and thought, _we wouldn’t mind having him with us._ to his friends, who know his training has been arduous and painful, and who know the chances of it actually happening are sub-zero, but who are going to try for him anyway. maybe that's the secret to idoldom.

:

as it turns out, woojin’s laugh sounds just the same in real life as it did on tv. woong can’t help but take a shine to him — it’s not his fault he’s already bored of youngmin and donghyun and daehwi. he laughs into woojin’s side just to test the waters, and the sour look in return is just what woong predicted. they go out to lunch a few times, all five of them, and it starts to feel like something.

:

the dance is as hard as it looks. that’s what they tell him, much to woong’s dismay. somehow he dances in these practice rooms for up to ten hours a day, and still feels unqualified when woojin begins teaching the first few moves. he does his absolute best — truly, he does, but the disparity between him and the other four is glaringly obvious in the wall-to-wall mirrors.

woong tries to tell himself that they’ve had infinitely more time to learn and practice, that he’ll catch up, that woojin choreographed this _himself_ — it’s no wonder his isolations are so much cleaner. a few hours in however, he’s beginning to feel hopeless.

woojin is at the back, manning the stereo, barely panting. donghyun and youngmin are rolling around on the floor, fake crying into each other, and daehwi is in the corner on his phone, sipping water. although they’re not directly interacting, or even physically close, there’s just this quiet comfort between them. the kind that comes from training and practicing together in rooms like this for months and months.

woong does his best to quell his own rather dramatic breathing, standing awkwardly apart. he’d probably be on his phone, too, if he could just get rid of the dizzying spots rapidly clouding his vision. instead, he’s stuck observing the ways in which he’s currently failing at everything. giving into exhaustion, he stumbles a few meters away, sitting down heavily on the wood floor.

the burn in his thighs and the roughness of his throat is plenty familiar, but the silently building frustration is not. he feels itchy, burning up under his skin even as the oscillating electric fan passes over him. it’s similar to how he gets during monthly evaluations, practically vibrating with anxiety, making him irritable and snappy and internally judgmental in a way that he hates. 

and when looked at from this angle, he supposes, this isn’t _unlike_ a monthly evaluation. the usual suspects are all here, after all, subtracting the ceo and adding woojin, but woong recognizes the unmistakable sting of being judged.

he knows it’s irrational — the other four aren’t observing him on that level, of course they aren't; they’re here as his friends, as his tentative and unofficial group members. he’s still practically a stranger to woojin; woong doubts he has any opinions on him as a person at all quite yet.

he clenches his fists, blinking rapidly as his vision finally begins to clear. he feels a headache setting in, probably from dehydration or exhaustion or both, but he resolves to ignore it in the same moment he notices.

they wrap up shortly after woojin calls them back, donghyun and daehwi citing utter and complete exhaustion, with youngmin muttering something about being hungry. really, it’s a very politely disguised excuse for woong to have solo practice with woojin, so he can play catch up. he appreciates it, of course, but that doesn’t keep the steady creep of frustration and embarrassment from twisting his stomach. his head pounds, and he swallows once the three have left. woojin, for his part, doesn’t mention it, and just starts the music again.

another hour later the practice room floor is slick with sweat. that’s something gross they don’t tell you — if you sweat enough, it _will_ coat the literal floor. and you _will_ slip. and it’ll be gross.

there’s still that one move that woong can’t quite get, the leg suspension in combination with twisting his torso is proving to be a challenge his coordination isn’t prepared for.

as they run it for what must be the eight hundredth time, woojin’s eyes on him in the mirror, the inevitable sweat-slip happens. 

woong is sliding forward to change position — and then he’s just sliding, and then he moves his foot to try and re-balance, and then the floor is rushing up to meet him.

he catches himself, thank god, but his knee takes the brunt of it, and he feels it go numb in the way that means his body is providing adrenaline so that he doesn’t immediately, like, die from the pain. fucking perfect.

he pushes himself up, catches his very red-faced reflection, and leans on his good leg as he stands, attempting to start walking in a small circle before woojin slides in front of him.

“are you ok?”

there’s almost no change in his expression, but his voice is sincere, and he’s reaching a hand out as if to touch woong’s shoulder. woong realizes the music has stopped.

here, looking into woojin’s clear-eyed concern, woong feels the floor rush up to him again, though in a different kind of way. the frustration crashes over him like a wave, and it all surfaces — the trouble with the dance, the embarrassment at continuously failing in front of the people giving him his shot, the fact that he only has a _week_ to learn this fucking choreo, the invisible wall he’s trying to claw his way over between himself and the rest of them, and, for the first time, maybe, he acknowledges how _scared_ he is.

he’s been living in abject terror since he got youngmin’s phonecall, horrified at the prospect of humiliating himself in front of his friends, at wasting their generosity, at being turned away by yet _another_ company. the revolving door has been in the back of his mind, finally _finally_ slowing to a stop, and woong is already recoiling at the crush of his body — like some sort of messed up pavlovian response to being close to his dream.

as if no time at all has passed — maybe it hasn’t, woong is kind of removed from the concept at this point — woojin’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“do you wanna take a break?” he asks, voice softer and kinder than woong had expected.

he looks up, and the look on his face must be something crazy, because woojin’s mask of neutrality finally cracks, his eyebrows knitting together and corners of his mouth turning down.

“here, let me get some water. why don’t you sit down, hyung?”

the honorific snaps him back, and woong shifts, stumbling as he puts weight on his quickly bruising knee. woojin catches him, lowering him to the ground with a hand on his elbow before jogging to the corner where their bags are.

woong shivers, somehow suddenly much too cold when just a moment ago he had been boiling.

his headache is almost all he can focus on, now that he’s stopped moving. a water bottle slips into the curve of his palm, and woojin’s larger frame settles next to him on the floor.

“thanks,” comes the hoarse whisper out of woong’s throat, and he chugs half the bottle, partly because he knows he’s dehydrated, partly to stall before he has to explain himself. woojin watches him, eyes glinting under the harsh lights and hair sticking to his forehead.

“sorry,” woong says, dazedly.

woojin shrugs, taking the bottle and drinking some himself.

“it’s ok. youngmin almost dropped the bar on himself with 40 kilograms on it the other day. accidents happen.”

he’s attempting to give woong an out, which is appreciated, but he thinks he really owes woojin more than that.

“yeah. i guess i’m just… like. on the verge of a breakdown.” he can’t even attempt to laugh it off; the words ring too true in the empty room.

“oh.” woojin watches him, and it’s different from being observed in monthly evaluations, when woong can see the wheels turning in heads, can feel the air heavy with opinions. woojin’s gaze is clear as it had been at the beginning of practice, if a bit curious, maybe. woong licks his lips, mouth still dry despite the water.

“i’m really scared of disappointing you guys,” he quickly glances to meet woojin’s eyes, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shorts.

“i know… i mean, you guys are being really nice in letting me try and debut with you, and i know it probably won’t affect you if i fail, but i still don’t wanna make you look bad in front of rhymer. and plus like… i’d be wasting such a huge opportunity.” he pauses, relenting on his shorts and sitting up a bit straighter.

“i don’t know if you know, or if the others told you or whatever, but i’ve been rejected from a couple of the big companies… and not even made it past audition for some others,” he huffs a ghost of a laugh.

“training has been sort of hard. and it’s not — it’s not like i don’t know why. i know i’m not… maybe not quite there in terms of singing. obviously my dancing leaves something to be desired,” he says bitterly, gesturing at the mirrors. woojin’s eyes widen and he tilts his head, frowning.

“no it doesn’t.”

“what?”

“no it doesn’t,” woojin repeats, confused.

“you’ve learned more in one day than donghyun and youngmin combined in a week when i first taught it.”

woong blinks.

“but… i. didn’t the others leave to give me some time to catch up?”

woojin rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“honestly i don’t know what they’re thinking half the time; i thought they were just trying to weasel out of practice again. i stayed because you did.”

woong coughs.

“oh.” he swallows, continuing his explanation though with noticeably less steam than before.

“well — well anyway. i just meant… i’m not as debut-ready as you all are. so i’m trying not to drag you down, but it feels like i sort of am. and, honestly the idea of being told to get lost again is… uh. not. not great. for me.” he’s clasping his hands together, white-knuckled and beginning to shake a bit. a warm palm settles on top of them.

“i don’t mean to be dismissive, but that’s pretty normal.”

woong looks up at him.

“like, if any of us had gotten into sm, do you think we’d be _here?”_ he snorts.

“donghyun, rejected at audition. youngmin did two years with jyp, me — yg. you get the idea. i’m sure you know that we’ve all been in similar positions. and to think you could drag us down — i mean,” he shrugs, right hand gesturing vaguely.

“ _you’re_ the one with everything to lose, hyung. we’re scared, too. scared to let you down. scared you won’t like us enough to join our team even once rhymer approves. we need you as much as you need us. if not more.” he clears his throat, taking his hand back from woong’s.

“and as far as what the others have told me… it sounds to me like you’re um. debut-ready.” he smiles, a small parting of his lips over teeth.

woong exhales, blushing a little. woojin’s just made him feel sufficiently ridiculous. in a good way, though. it’s always a relief to realize you’ve been taking things too seriously.

there’s still that door in the back of his head, glinting harshly, and there’s still the feeling of being slowly washed away from existence lurking under his skin, and his head still hurts, but he thinks, when woojin held his hand, he felt a little more stable. like maybe he couldn’t disappear so easily.

woojin claps suddenly, hauling himself up to a standing position and holding out a hand for woong.

“now we can get you home to ice that knee, i think.”

:

woong bites his lip as he unlocks his apartment door, distinctly aware that woojin’s never been here before and that he has dirty dishes in the sink.

woojin, tactful as ever, only gives the tiny space a cursory glance before moving to the refrigerator, pulling open the freezer and efficiently removing the ice tray.

woong spent the walk home limping and leaning half his weight on woojin, who was very gentlemanly about the whole thing with his hand all the way up near woong’s shoulders. woong tosses his keys onto the small table tucked into the space between the kitchen and his bed. he sits down heavily on his mattress, reaching behind him to bang the radiator to life. woojin shuffles over after a moment, a plastic bag with ice in it sitting on a dish towel in his palm. he sits next to woong, carefully folding the towel over itself and continuing to look around in short, curious glances.

“it must be nice to have your own place,” he says politely, gesturing for woong to stretch out his leg, settling the homemade ice pack on his knee.

woong sighs, propping himself on his elbows and eyeing the accursed box he’s been calling home for two years.

“i suppose,” he intones, not meaning it at all. what he wouldn’t give to have a roommate to bother him on nights when he has to continuously pinch himself to check if he’s still alive.

there’s something distinctly lonely about the apartment, and he can tell woojin notices it too. from the single pot with water on the stove to the twin bed they’re sitting on, to the empty freezer woojin’s now seen; it’s all very. lonely. woong’s heart squeezes as he looks at his bedside table, bare besides the clock and lamp.

it barely looks like he lives here, and he begins having that ghostly feeling that creeps up on him at night. he thinks it must be so obvious to everyone else, that he's barely hanging on. an apparition haunting practice room 2 in their company building.

_jeon woong, gone._

he bites his lip, feeling his throat tighten, and woojin adjusts the ice pack.

“sorry, does it hurt?” he asks, concernedly holding woong’s leg.

woong shakes his head, doing his very best not to cry.

“no — no, sorry.”

there’s stillness a moment longer before woojin reaches out and takes woong’s hand.

woong looks up, eyes wide, but before he can say anything, woojin hurriedly explains,

“it seemed like it helped you before. sorry if you don’t like it.” his fingers are stiff, ready to pull away at any moment. woong laces them with his own.

“it did. it does.” he gives woojin a look of what he hopes comes across as genuine gratitude.

woojin clears his throat, poking at the ice pack.

“i think you’ll like the dorm,” he says.

woong notices the way he talks about the future. as if it’s a sure thing.

“there are a lot of windows, and we have a tv.” he looks around again.

“we’ll have to buy another chair for the kitchen. unless you want this one…?” he says, raising an eyebrow at the singular sad fold-out chair shoved into the table.

woong shudders, tightening their hands.

“ _no,_ no. i’d really… _really_ like to have a new chair.” he and woojin meet eyes, and they break into laughter.

“ _god,”_ woong says, collapsing back onto his bed.

“sorry my life is so fucking sad.” woojin scoots up, laying on his back too.

“i don’t think your life is sad. i think it… could be happier.”

they giggle again, snorting into the sheets.

after a minute they fall silent again, and woojin rolls over, looking out the window to their side.

“i think… i kinda get why you’re on the verge of a breakdown. or were. whatever.”

woong sighs again, looking up at the ceiling.

“yeah.”

he rolls over too, and woojin is already looking at him. perhaps they are a bit too comfortable for having had their longest conversation yet about an hour ago, but it doesn’t feel weird. it fits.

woong licks his lips, feeling his mouth go dry. the words bubble up in his throat, tongue loosened from the laughter.

“sometimes i feel like i’m not real.”

it all comes out in one breath, rushed out of his mouth.

woojin blinks, but doesn’t say anything.

woong tucks a hand between his thighs; the radiator has decided not to come on tonight.

“sometimes… um. i just get so _lonely,_ you know? in this apartment. that’s part of the reason i’m always in the practice rooms. i guess i just… feel like i’m barely here in the first place. and then i look around, and i’m like — fuck _am_ i? i don’t know. i just don’t want to fade away.”

he tacks on the last part, voice going quiet. he feels very much like he's just divulged all his secrets. emptiness takes their place.

woojin looks at him, and woong looks away.

a warm hand settles on his shoulder.

“woong hyung,” he says, and even that makes woong choke up a little, just hearing his name from someone else. spoken like he's real.

“woong hyung, i think you’ll really like it in our dorm.”

:

before long woojin’s arm becomes a permanent fixture across woong’s shoulders, and it makes him feel good — protected, for once in his life. like maybe his entire dream isn’t about to fall out from under him in the next moment because he can’t sing well enough.

in fact, all four of them seem to form a loose circle around woong whenever they have to meet with the ceo, as if to say, _this one’s ours, now. you can’t take him._

it’s cute, and amusing, especially when daehwi secretly rolls his eyes to woong during meetings, but more than that it serves as a reminder that they _want_ him here. that he’s not some stranger, intruding. they picked him. out of everyone in the world, they picked jeon woong.

and on that subject, he doesn’t know if woojin’s said anything to them, but woong notices them saying his name more. it’s never just _hyung_ anymore. it’s _woong hyung,_ from woojin, _woongie hyung_ from daehwi, _woong-woong_ hyung from donghyun, and _jeon-woongie_ from youngmin. maybe it’s silly, but with every variation, and every drawn out exclamation of his name, woong feels a little bit more real.

there are even times, when he can still feel woojin’s arm around him, when he can still hear daehwi’s newest nickname ringing in his ears, that he falls asleep without trouble in his apartment. he doesn’t look out the window, and he doesn’t check the clock. the name jeon woong starts to sound like something in his head. the passing headlights fall over him, and he knows his eyes shine back, he knows his hair falls over his pillow and he knows that if he were to disappear, his friends would notice his absence at lunch the next day.

:

rhymer confirms their debut. woojin hugs him tight. the pictures come out, and jeon woong is now definitively someone. there are articles about him, even.

woojin is right. he likes it in the dorm. turning over the key to his apartment is cathartic in the most visceral of ways.

and despite himself, despite the healed over fractures in all his fingers, and the ghosts of pain riddling his body, he reaches out for that revolving door again. he doesn’t even listen for the _whoosh._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ! let me know what you thought in the comments !
> 
> you can find me on twitter @lookslikerain (main)  
> or @rouxberrv (fic acc)


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